


Inside Your Head the Sound of Glass

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>All the rooms of the castle except this one.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside Your Head the Sound of Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plingo_kat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/gifts).



They bury the girl out in a field. Black hair, white dress. Clay can't remember what color her eyes are. He asks Jensen, afterwards, just because, and Jensen furrows his brows, pauses mid-sentence. "Blue," he says finally. "I'm pretty sure they were blue. Did you know that only sixteen point six percent of the American population has blue eyes? It used to be more, but -"

"Jensen," Clay says seriously.

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

Jensen purses his lips briefly, but then he just lowers his eyes and goes back to picking at his food. He mutters something about cat irises under his breath, but Clay doesn't even pretend to be listening. Instead he thinks about the girl, and how black her hair was. And how black hair wasn't even his type, blonde was.

Except there's Jensen now, and everything's different.

-

In the madhouse, what Clay likes to describe as the worst eight months of his life: they drugged him up and once in a while someone came in to ask him if he still felt the need to tear people to shreds. Not in so many words, but Clay's smart. He's been around. They can ask their questions, and he can answer them, and everyone can pretend that he's going to get better someday. That they'll let him go someday.

And then there was the kid who wouldn't stop talking about government conspiracies; who wouldn't stop talking, period. Obsessive compulsive. Paranoid. Clay bribed someone to read his file. Couldn't figure out why a boy without a trail of bodies behind him was even in here to begin with. But then again, not like Clay had ever been convicted of anything.

The kid said "Hey," one day. Popped up like a jack-in-the-box, waved his fingers into Clay's face. "Hey, you. You're the guy. You're the one, right."

-

Jensen says, "So I figure we go north, right. I've got it all mapped out. I love how pale their skin gets in winter, like snow."

And these could be Clay's own words. His fantasy. His beautiful girls, all lined up in a row. But now there's Jensen, and Clay says, "Shut up," again, but this time Jensen ignores him, keeps talking. They go north, and there's a guy hitching along the I-95. Not a good idea, not in weather like this, but he seems unconcerned. Clay's not sure why he stops in the first place, two hundred pounds of what looks like heavy muscle isn't anything either of them is into, but he pulls over anyway.

"Thanks, man," the guy says, sliding into the back seat. "It's fucking cold out there. Thought I'd freeze to death." His smile is bright, teeth gleaming faintly in the pale light. "Roque," he continues. "Name's Roque."

He shrugs off his jacket, and Jensen glances behind him, says, "Like your shirt."

Roque doesn't say where he's from, what in god's name he's doing out here where nowhere goes to die, not even when Jensen asks. Just shrugs easily and turns to look out the window, doesn't even bother to offer the lie: my car broke down. Or: my girl, we had a fight and she kicked me out. Parachuted in, way, way off course.

"What do you do?"

"I drive a truck."

"Oh yeah?" Jensen peers at him in the rearview mirror, and flashes a grin. "Lost your truck somewhere?"

"No," Roque says shortly. "You can drop me off, nearest stop's about -"

"A few miles, yeah I know. GPS. Isn't technology great. Of course it also means they can track you, and soon enough they will know exactly where you are, twenty-four seven. The future is the ID chip in the back of your neck; say goodbye to even the minusculest illusion of privacy you might be clinging to."

In the backseat, Roque raises his brow, and Clay shrugs. "Jensen has theories."

"Yeah, I bet he does," Roque mutters, and lapses back into silence. Clay can't read him, and that's rare. Thinks ex-military, maybe. Dangerous, definitely. But there's dangerous and then there's dangerous, and Roque's probably not met the likes of them yet.

-

They'd play games, in this nuthouse for nutcases. Jensen knew how to get everywhere, even everywhere restricted. Clay didn't ask, but Jensen volunteered. "Computers, they just kind of - I can figure them out, right. When I was seventeen, I hacked into the DOD. Almost got away with it, too. They offered me a job, the government." He grinned. "That was before they found out I was crazy. Two months, seven days and fifteen hours. That's how long I've been in here."

His breath was hot on Clay's cheek. "How long you been in here? No, I already know. Wanna know how long it took for me to figure out how to escape?" Attention already wandering, and then - "Come on, let's fuck. I think you should fuck me."

-

It's Jensen's turn to drive, so Clay slumps against the passenger seat door, idly watches Roque (what kind of name is Roque? Nickname - has to be) fill up the back, and not just with his frame. He's not much for talking, answers Clay's random questions politely enough, but not revealing anything important at all. Not evasive though, just private.

And Clay suddenly wonders: if he can go from beautiful blond boys to dark haired girls - but maybe he's into beauty, period. Jensen's not his type either. Too tall, too strong.

Jensen's glancing at him curiously now, eyebrows raised over his glasses, but Clay ignores him. Imagines himself jumping into the back seat, sliding in between Roque's open legs. Taking his cock into his hands, and into his mouth. What would Roque say? Maybe he'd push him away, slam his fist against the side of Clay's face. That's fine, Clay's used to pain. But he could make Roque compliant, if that's what it took.

"You wanna drink," Clay says, and offers a bright smile. Thought turns to action turns to: you have no impulse control, is what his mother used to say. Clay's mother was a smart woman. She always knew he'd turn out bad.

-

Jensen would break them into the head shrink's office. Clay said once, "There's cameras everywhere," but Jensen just held his finger up to his lips and smirked. Too goddamned smart for his own good, that one. Clay made him pay. Face down on the table, his hand jammed against the back of Jensen's neck to keep him still when he started to jerk, when the knife slipped and cut too deep, accidentally or perhaps not. When Clay finally slammed into him and he screamed because he was too hot and too dry, and Clay always wondered why he never felt the urge to finish the job, to slit that fine throat the way he did all the others, no matter how much he loved them at the time.

But: Jensen was different. Jensen laughed like he had no impulse control and wrote code in obsessively neat script in a notebook and whispered to him about pale little brunettes in sundresses and heels, and had never actually hurt so much as a fly before, but his eyes were bright with hope and promise, and when Clay grabbed ahold of his hair and pulled him back until his back arched painfully and the cuts started bleeding even more freely, all he said was one word.

All he said was, "More."

-

"What are you doing," Jensen asks. Well, not asks exactly, but his face puckers in curiosity as Clay reaches for the beer he keeps in the cooler in the back seat.

"I'll pop it open for you," he tells Roque when Roque picks up a bottle. "Hand it over." And just like that it's done, except not really. Clay hands the bottle over, and it's easier with men, mostly, they all trust that they're the top of the predator heap, that usually they're the ones doing the hurting, not the other way around. Roque is wary though, careful. He accepts the beer, but holds it carefully in his lap without touching it for the longest time. Clay mutters under his breath, "Come on, come on," but when Roque finally takes a swig and passes out, Clay's heart isn't in it.

"What," Jensen says. "I thought you were. I could pull over. You want me to pull over?"

Clay starts laughing, "Don’t worry about it, J."

"Yeah, I don't know, I like him. I might watch, maybe." He scratches distractedly at a healing scab peeking out from under his t-shirt, and Clay leans forward, kisses him hard. Tongue and teeth and spit, and Jensen has no choice but to pull over. Empty road, frozen field and silence save for Roque's heavy, steady breaths, and Jensen's voice is little more than a whisper. "Come on, you know you want to."

-

They broke out, in the end, because Jensen was bored. And crazy, but that was besides the point. "The drugs," he told Clay seriously. "They're making me crazy. Look, look." He showed Clay his notebook, and Clay couldn’t make sense of the numbers and symbols, couldn’t make sense of how any of it was different than before, but Jensen said, "I can't feel the magic anymore. The code's gone silent. The blood helps, but it's not enough. You see it, right."

And Clay knew he was probably insane, enough people kept telling him he was, but Jensen, Jensen was batshit. Smart enough to break through all the security though, and then they were out, _walked_ out as if they owned the place, Jensen even waved to the security as they drove off in someone's car, flashed his fake identity badge as if he wasn’t even remotely nervous that they might get caught.

Clay wanted a boy, first thing he wanted when they were out and safe. Out of state, as far as they could, and he wanted a boy, but Jensen was in the diner they dropped in at for a burger, failing to successfully flirt with a young, vaguely embarrassed looking waitress, and at some point he said, "She's pretty. Isn't she pretty?" in a particular tone of voice Clay had never heard before. He hadn't been paying attention, not until exactly that moment, but he followed Jensen's gaze. And then he was.

-

Clay takes the beer from Roque's slack fingers, puts his other hand on the inside of his thigh. Roque doesn't stir, doesn't move a muscle. Stays as still as a sleeping baby, or the deeply drugged. Clay would rather have them awake though, so in the end he just sighs, tells Jensen, "Get back on the road. Keep driving."

"Are you serious?"

Clay shrugs. "I'm tired, hey."

"Whatever, man. He's yours. Do whatever, or not."

Jensen taps his fingers on the steering wheel, frustration written on the lines of his shoulders. Turns the key over in the ignition and takes them back onto the empty road, a mile away from a rest-stop they might or might not leave Roque at. Clay still hasn't decided yet, even though it's probably already too late.

He watches Roque until he stirs, rubs his face and says sleepily, "Fuck, I guess I was more tired than I thought I was. Where are we."

"Almost home," Clay says. "Almost home."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [except now, the need](https://archiveofourown.org/works/348981) by [lady_krysis (saekhwa)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis)
  * [Graphics: Inside Your Head the Sound of Glass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/624882) by [Cleo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo/pseuds/Cleo)




End file.
